


A House Full of Cheer, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Christmas at the Watson-Holmeses [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hamish, John, and Sherlock decorate the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House Full of Cheer, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hamish Watson-Holmes, created by valeria2067 [here](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/11679232191/hamish-a-sherlock-john-ficlet-pairing). For more Hamish stories, go [here](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Part III of an interconnected set of Christmas stories.

  
John and Sherlock were awakened at 5 AM by a sharp-elbowed and -kneed flying Hamish, who landed squarely on John’s back.

“Dad! Father! Wake up! Guess what today is!”

John, wheezing, said, “I think we’re up, Hal. What is it?”

“Today’s the day we get the tree! Can we go get it now?”

“Hamish,” Sherlock, cracking open one eye, said in a sleepy rumble,“it is far too early for any of the tree stands to be open. Go back to sleep, and when we all wake up again, we’ll go get the tree.”

Hamish snuggled down in between them, clutching at Sherlock’s t-shirt. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Sherlock reached up and tapped his son’s nose. Hamish giggled and pushed closer to his father.

John pulled himself over and draped his arm over his son and his husband. “Go back to sleep, Hal,” he said as he pressed his lips to the top of his son’s curly head.

“Cant’t,” Hamish complained, wiggling a bit.

John shifted his arm to a more comfortable position and glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were already closed, his breaths long and even as he slept. “Let’s recite the names of the bones again, quietly, so we don’t wake Father. I’ll start. Humerus.”

“Tibia.”

“Femur.”

“Ulna.” Hamish’s voice was getting quieter as he grew more tired.

Twenty bones later, Hamish’s breaths were long and even as he slept. John yawned and closed his eyes, letting the quiet sounds of his son’s and Sherlock’s breaths lull him to sleep.

  


Four hours later, John stirred. The bed was empty, but the smell of eggs and bacon told him where the other two had scarpered off to. He pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and headed into the kitchen, mussing Hamish’s curls as he passed him at the kitchen table before dropping a long kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“Good morning,” John said when he pulled away. Sherlock smiled at him softly and handed him an empty plate. “There’s plenty left for you,” he said as John walked over to the stove.

When John returned to the table, Hamish started in on his plans for their day.

“First, we haveta go get the tree. Father texted Uncle Mycroft, and he’s lending us a car so we don’t have to take the tree in a taxi or the Tube. Then we need to get a stand and get the tree inside. Then we have to get the boxes from the attic so we can decorate. And then we can decorate the tree and everything else and then we can help Mrs. Hudson bake biscuits!”

John looked at Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson’s making biscuits?” The implication behind that question included _And she’s letting Hamish help?_ John and Sherlock remembered all too well the last time Hamish had “helped” with baking. They were still scraping the dried, cement-like batter off of various items in the kitchen, and this baking “incident” had happened eight months ago.

“Yeah!” Hamish cried. “She said she was going to make lots of them because you can’t decorate for Christmas without biscuits.”

“Better eat up,” Sherlock said wryly. “It seems like Master Hamish’s plans don’t include breaks for lunch or dinner.”

  


An hour and a half later, Hamish was bursting with impatience as he let John help him with his bootlaces and gloves. “Is the car here yet?”

Sherlock looked out the window and grinned. “It just pulled up to the kerb.”

“Yes!” Hamish jumped up in an excellent imitation of Sherlock’s little “this is a wonderful puzzle” hop and ran down the stairs, yelling at his parents to hurry.

They pulled up to Clifton Nurseries and let Hamish out first. The boy pulled at their hands as they wandered up and down each aisle until finally, Hamish stopped at one and said, decisively, “I think we should get this one.”

John looked at it carefully. It was a fine tree, not too tall and not too big around, so it should fit in the flat. He nodded and looked at Sherlock, who nodded in return. “Looks good, Hal,” John said, and the boy beamed.

  
Once the tree was safely installed in the flat (Hamish “helped” by giving them directions), the driver left and the three of them were left staring at the potential of an empty tree.

Hamish turned to his parents and opened his mouth, but John beat him to it.

“Lunch first,” he said firmly as Hamish’s brow crinkled. “Then we will go get the boxes from the attic and decorate.”

“Fine.” Hamish threw himself on the sofa and sulked (his sulks were not quite as spectacular as Sherlock’s, but they were close) as Sherlock drew his violin from its case and carefully rosined the bow. He drew the bow across the strings and the strains of “O Holy Night” filled the flat as John fixed a simple lunch.

After lunch, John turned on the CD player and put in a CD of classical Christmas music that Sherlock had deemed “acceptably performed” while Sherlock climbed the little ladder into the attic. He handed boxes down to John, who handed some to Hamish as they carried them into the sitting room. Soon enough, the room was full of boxes haphazardly stacked on every available surface.

Before Hamish had come along, they had never really bothered overmuch with decorations. John had found a small fake tree that they sat on the coffee table and they’d put one string of fairy lights on it and that was that. But for Hamish’s first Christmas, it had been Sherlock, surprisingly, who had started filling the flat with decorations.

“Every child should have a house full of cheer,” Sherlock had said, and in his eyes, John read the stories of a childhood full of magic and wonder before they had been lost to a boy who grew up far too quickly.

So now they had boxes of decorations to put up. John insisted upon doing up the rest of the flat before they started on the tree, so Hamish and Sherlock ripped into the boxes that were labelled Not Tree in Hamish’s shaky script. John took the Santa hat out of one box and clapped it on his head, to Sherlock’s indulgent eyeroll and Hamish’s delighted grin.

  


A short hour later, and they had got the garland up on the mantle, the fat red candles with their pine wreath rings scattered around the house, the advent calendar hung on the wall at Hamish’s height, and the wreaths up on the walls. John replaced the normal kitchen linens with the Christmas ones, and set the Christmas towels in the loo. Finally, Hamish looked at the Tree boxes with glee.

“Go ahead and find the lights and give them to your Father,” John said as he headed into the kitchen. “I’ll make some cocoa for us.”

Hamish started digging, and came up with two fistfuls of fairy lights. Sherlock took them and started untangling them as he hung them on the tree, explaining as he went about light refraction and ideal placement of lights in order to ensure the tree was as well-lit as possible.

John came out with a tray of cocoa and biscuits just as Sherlock plugged in the lights.

“Oooh!” Hamish cried as he stepped back to look at the whole tree. Sherlock’s breath caught a bit as Hamish turned to him, eyes shining brightly with the reflection of the lights, and said, “It looks perfect!”

John, having caught the look on his husband’s face, said gently, “Hal, come drink your cocoa. I need to talk to your Father for a moment. Two biscuits, only!” he added as Hamish gave him a guilty look. “I counted them, so I’ll know if you take more.”

Sherlock withdrew to their room and took a shaky breath. John came up and embraced him tightly from behind.

“What did I do to deserve you and him?” Sherlock wondered aloud, voice on the edge of breaking. “I lie awake and ask myself that every night. Someone like me doesn’t deserve you two, and when he looks at me like that, like I’m the one who hangs the moon and the stars, I can’t help but wait for someone to pinch me and tell me this is all just a dream.”

“Sherlock,” John said, softly. He turned his husband in his arms and pulled him down for a kiss. “Look at me,” he said when they parted. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek with one hand. “You are a wonderful husband and an even better father. I cannot think of anyone who deserves this joy more than you. I wish there was some way to make you realise that. You’re not the person you were, Sherlock. You are so loved, and so deserving of this and of us. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to raise a child with. That I’d want to spend my life with. I’m no-one without you. Without both of you.”

“ _John—_ ”

They clung to each other for a moment longer, just breathing the other in, before they went back into the sitting room, smiling brightly at their son.

“Can I put the star on the top?” Hamish asked as he leapt to his feet.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “But first, I think the tree needs some ornaments, don’t you?”

Once the tree was decorated (and there were more at Hamish’s height than there were on the rest of the tree), John carefully lifted the star from its wrappings and handed it to Hamish, who took it with a grave nod. John bit back a smile as Sherlock picked Hamish up, settling him on his hip, and got as close to the tree as possible. Hamish reached up and settled the star on top of the tree and grinned. “Done!” he cried as Sherlock stepped back and joined John at the door, taking in the glowing tree.

“I think there’s one more thing,” Sherlock said as he reached over and pulled the Santa hat off of John’s head and clapped it onto Hamish’s head. The brim slipped down over one of Hamish’s eyes and the boy pulled it up so he could see, giggling as his fathers kissed both his cheeks.

“Perfect,” Sherlock said as he looked at his husband and his son.

“It always was,” John said, smiling gently.


End file.
